The Occasional Migraine
by didyouknowanon
Summary: America suffers from post-concussion syndrome after a terrorist attack. With palliative care the world is expected to make a full recovery. 9/11 as a blow to the head with an AK-47.


**The Occasional Migraine**

**-  
**

**1. Lost (and Found)**

Canada is lying upside down on his couch watching the television when it happens. His program is interrupted to bring him an important newsflash and he glances at the screen, eyebrows disappearing downwards into his hair.

Then, he throws himself upright and stares at the screen in disbelief. A plane has flown into the World Trade Centre in New York. The buildings are collapsing. People are screaming and running and dying. They're _dying_, down there, across the border and in his brother's house-

-_his_ _brother_. Mathew's eyes grow wide as shock finally pierces his dazed mind. _Alfred. His brother._

As fast as he can, pulse pounding somewhere in his throat, he leaps to his feet and through the door and _runs_ towards the distant columns of smoke rising in the sky beyond his house. He has to go and find his brother. Alfred's there, and Canada has to go and help.

The airport refuses him. All flights to America have been grounded. He can't leave, by order of the American Government.

Then, the people start coming. Travellers from all around the world arrive at Toronto in their aeroplanes instead of at their destination. They file out onto his land and crowd, lost in the waiting lobbies and speaking in their languages and watching images on television screens and holding hands to their mouths as if they are about to be sick. The children of so many nations sit with Canada and hug their families close.

They are in _Canada_, not America, and it makes him want to cry because _now_ is the time that everybody sees the difference between them.

Matthew leaves the building to stand in the cold outside, holding his Yellow Ribbon and feeling something empty swirl inside him, and he hopes with all his heart that Alfred knows what he's doing.

-

**Symptoms- confusion, nausea and vomiting**

**-**_open your eyes_ and see the sky filled with red and black and people rushing by and children asking if you're alright but you're not and you wish that you were there so that you could save them but you're not. Or are you, because you've always felt as though your states were all there simultaneously and that must mean that you _are_ there, right? You're there now even if the classroom around you is real and so are the pain that you feel and the vertigo as you jump from the top of the burning building and hit the concrete below with a **crack**, like a blow with an AK-47 to the back of the head.

Now close your eyes again, let them flutter down and fall like your body as it hits the carpet, twitching and sorry and _please-Mister-President-something's-wrong-stop-reading-this-story_-

-_STOP._

There's something wrong with America. His children need him, he knows that, but he can't breathe and can't think out of the fog that's filled his mind, and all he can do is try as best as he can. Even still, the people trying so hard to save his sons and daughters are just as confused as he, and as he feels them die he just gives up and stumbles to the corner of the room and is violently sick.

The world swims and thuds around him. Everything makes him weary and want to curl up and stem the flow of blood and clear liquid running over the back of his neck. There's dust in the air and death in the streets outside.

Alfred sobs in rage and pain, interrupting story-time for cerebrospinal fluid and a terrorist attack.

-

**2. Partners in Crime**

"Off of me! I _don't need_ your _fucking_-"

Arthur Kirkland is the first to visit. He's in the White House in the Oval Office with his boss mere days after, but while the Prime Minister is seated, England paces unrelentingly up and down and around again, saying nothing. The two of them freeze together at the commotion outside but only have time to raise eyebrows before something bursts through the doors.

It's Alfred, followed closely by his boss who tries to catch his shoulder and pull him back, but there's no one on earth who can stop America with their bare hands when he's like this. Arthur knows that personally in a heart made from Red Coat stitching. It's as if they're back in the rain again, pointing guns, because England hasn't seen America's eyes like this in a long time.

"_Arthur_," America hisses when he spots him, storming into his personal space. "_He_ did this to me. _That fucking coward of an Islam bitch_. I'm going to kill him. _We'll kill him_."

England's shocked into silence, but Alfred doesn't take that as an acceptable answer. He grabs him roughly by the collar and jerks him closer. "You hear me, _England_? _We're_ going to do this. I _swear_-"

Afraid, Arthur pulls away and slaps him. He needs to calm down, the git, before he hurts somebody. The sting stops him in his tracks and he shakes his head and looks foggily at England for a moment before wincing out a curse and slowly sliding palms over his ears and clenching his eyes as if shutting out white noise.

America's boss sits, weary, at his table, face in his hands. "He's been like this, on and off, on and off," he says in a broad defeated accent. "…this week's been Hell."

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that. What is there to say at a time like this?

"We're declaring a War on Terrorism." The British heads in the room shoot up and stare at the President. "That's what he wants. What _they_ want. I can't afford to let them get away with this."

England turns away. "Do you know where your target is?"

"Al Qaeda. Afghanistan. We need to start there."

Start. He doesn't like the word _start_. He never has, because when America starts something he always finishes it but somehow doesn't. Like Kuwait. Like Vietnam. Like Korea and the Cold War and Ivan as he stands there with his warheads.

Placing a trembling hand on Alfred shoulder as he tries to stand up and look straight through the thudding in his head, Arthur swallows down the lump in his throat. He nods. "You have our full support."

-

**Symptoms- headache, tinnitus and anger**

Hear the screams that echo around you. They're still here.

Ground Zero is a burnt out shell. Where once stood the world's greatest monument to trade now there is nothing but the messages and bouquets the world leaves on your doorstep. Standing in the autumn sun and looking upwards at the cloudless sky one can almost imagine them still there, but _you_ can't. You can't, because staring at the sky like this makes your headache only get worse.

Your people mutter in your ears constantly. Sometimes it's words, but mostly it is just the ringing of an air siren going off; the sounds of screams and cries of men dead and dying. It irritates you, this constant noise. It stops you from concentrating, from sleeping, from eating and doing your duty. But it is irritating above all else, this mumble of hate in your ears that sets your blood aflame.

-They hate, and you feel their hate and you hate along with them. The Islamic militants who did this to you should _die_, and you will kill them yourself, with your own two hands and a gun and a bullet. What have you done wrong to deserve this from them? You have done nothing. But _now_-

Now you will show them just how foolish they were to pick a fight with America.

Afghanistan condemns the attacks, sending his condolences along with the rest of the Middle East. Alfred hears the guns go off in the street and the fires burning the temples and mosques, ignores him and sets his sights on Kabul and Osama Bin Laden.

-

**3. To Freeze (to remove assets; to put your hands up)**

It seems that America is in a bit of trouble. How remarkable.

Looking across the Bering Strait at Alaska, Ivan is mildly interested. Oh, he knows the news, of course. He talks now to Canada and America and their friends, and besides, it is all that Europe talks about anymore. NATO had even gotten involved (and Ivan had watched them like a Bear on Salmon, jumping about against the stream of panic and almost into his jaws-).

Terrorism scares him a little. A little, because his people and his children living in his house could get ideas, that perhaps little people can do something to hurt the powers just by exploding a little, tiny plane. So he follows the rest of his friends and makes new laws- they call them 'anti-terrorism'.

"It is to make you safer, da?" he tells especially Georgia and Armenia, and then Lithuania and Latvia. "Terrorism is not a good thing, I am thinking." Then he has Estonia review his accounts and pulls away his funds from all the companies that have anything to do with Afghanistan business.

Freezing funds to Al Qaeda is, after all, the very least he can do to make the world a safer, happier place.

On the other side of the Pacific, another communist downs his glass and gives America a hard stare. He spits on the desk and shifts his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Let me get this straight," he grunts, unimpressed. "You want to buy land off of me and make some kind of facility?"

America's eyes flicker to the window every few seconds. He's nervous, but definitely not of the Cuban sitting in front of him. He seems jumpy, expecting something to catch him on the back of his head again. Not that Cuba really gives a shit about Alfred, but all this twitching and suspicion in his eyes is getting a little off-putting, and it's contagious, _damn him_.

"Yes. I want to use your land. It's of the utmost importance."

He finally spits out his smoke and kills it in the ashtray, shrugging. "Why not? It's your idea, and I'm not gonna touch it. If you're willing to pay me what you said, then all happiness to you."

America hands him the contract and he reads it over, noting the date and the legal agreements that seem rather hastily drawn up but otherwise alright. He signs in his loopy script and shoves it back to him.

"Just you remember," he warns as Alfred looks down at him with a strange grin. "I still hate you. You're a fucking greedy capitalist bastard. But since a few weeks ago, you're the world's little poster-boy for Hurt and Justice and Revenge and I'd be crazy to tell you to go get fucked. The world'd eat me out and Canada'd kill me."

Alfred snorts at him and walks out the door.

-

**Symptoms- paranoia, restlessness and impaired judgement**

They're everywhere. The problem with terrorism, you think, is that terrorists look just like people. Demons in the clothing of your children, and how are you meant to protect them from _themselves_?

Well, you realise as the paranoia doesn't abate, there _are_ ways. Patriots protect _patriots_ and it's the only way, because they're watching you through the windows and door and the telephones. The only way to catch them is to watch them back.

Spy planes over Afghanistan show movement. They're planning something and even if they're not (they **are**) you'll get them anyway. They're going to do it and your people will be hurt, but you'll catch the fuckers, just as surely as they watch as you walk back from Cuba with the papers in your hand. Your head hurts.

You're **right**.

America should go through the proper process of congress. He would, if he had time, but he doesn't, so he and his boss just go ahead and write the laws they need. He knows that it's bad, yes, but it's not _that_ bad- not bad enough to cause the deaths of thousands of his own people.

Besides, he's the Hero. He's the one who was fucking attacked, and he has every right to do what he wants in this case. The PATRIOT act and the Homeland Security act and the National Security Agency are perfectly reasonable, given the power of their enemy.

The black print on his precious paper reads Guantanamo Bay, and Alfred's doing this for the good of his people.

-

**4. Pacifists**

Japan shrugs the pack from his shoulders and leans against the hard, smooth exterior of his armoured vehicle. He's really, really not fond of this. His head is torn between the voices from home, half telling him to help rebuild Afghanistan, half hating him for wearing a uniform and holding a weapon.

He never uses it. But holding an assault rifle in his hands makes him sick with guilt and somehow excited simultaneously, and he is disgusted with himself.

Ludwig lounges nearby, hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun. As once it had the last time they were together, war seems to suit Germany. Not in the sense that he kills well, or enjoys guns and tanks, but rather in the sense that he deals better in orders and strategies than in the complicated land of courtesy.

"Did you miss it, Japan?" he pushes out a little broader than his usual clipped tones. Shadows cut across his arms as he ducks behind a military transport with the German flag modestly embossed.

"No. I did not." They are here, primarily, to defend villages and rebuild infrastructure, digging wells and purifying water and handing out food to Afghanis. He turns to face the German as he gropes for his canteen and asks, "Did you?"

Staring out across the God-forsaken terrain before them, Germany thinks of bombshells and starving families, of air strikes that only seem to hurt the innocent and not the people America hates. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. "No. I didn't either."

A break in the talk. Their contact with the outside world is by radio, and last night they heard Alfred's voice talking about something that's not Afghanistan at all. He's going to the Security Council with some kind of proposal. Kiku thinks it is for another attack on a country.

"-Iraq, I heard." In Afghanistan, people are still dying by the day. They haven't found Osama Bin Laden yet, and it's been more than a year. Who cares that this is what they had set out to do?

They both think about America, who's forgotten that they're still there, feeding the people at his own insistence. Suddenly Japan says what he's been thinking for long months.

"Why are we even here, Ludwig?"

It's a stupid question that he doesn't bother answering.

-

**Symptoms- impulsiveness, problems with attention and lucid intervals**

-Afghanistan. Bombs explode all around you. Home, and people talk. Boss talks, people listen. Afghanistan, but the world is growing tired. You haven't found him. Sons are dying. Terror, _focus_, _dammit, _Africa and Madrid is up in smoke. What? Find him? Just go and do it, you slacker- but then there's other things to do, and fighting here isn't getting you anywhere- you just can't concentrate in this heat. _Afghanistan_. _Bin Laden_-

-Iraq. _Of course_. You don't know why you hadn't thought of it before. It's Iraq. Iraq has Hussein and wears desert worn clothes. You stand in the Afghani desert and stare out across the horizon for as long as you can- which isn't really long at all because the emptiness of the sky can't keep your attention. Instead you slam a hand down on your boss's desk as he mentions the name that hangs in the back of your memory.

Iraq. Iraq. You think it sounds almost familiar.

Alfred's boss fidgets and looks at him as he sits and smiles through the hammer beating on his head. Iraq had been the only one in the Middle East to snort at his injury, so it makes sense that he's the one with the weapons. And that's what he has to do- find weapons and stop them, because they could attack people.

Afghanistan is _Afghanistan is_- Iraq is more important. America juggles the occupation of one nation as he watches with eagle eyes the people of another and feels another migraine coming on.

And that's what the War on Terror is about, right?

-

**5. Doubt (I don't believe you) **

"Alfred?" Francis asks finally, looking at him packing his bags with deliberate actions. There's something wrong with his eyes, the way they don't look straight ahead anymore. "Alfred, where are you going?"

"Iraq." His voice sends shills down his spine. Francis does not like this at all.

"…Alfred, the Gulf War finished 12 years ago, _non_? Remember?"

He cocks his head, invisible clouds like cataracts covering his pupils. A genuine frown. "…_It did_?"

Before, Alfred had acted out of anger. This, France can understand; after all, he is the country of _passion_ and love and just as equally revenge. That is why he helped in Afghanistan, because America was hurt and wanted to pay his attackers back and stop a terrorist group.

But now, something has changed. He had called it the 'War on Terrorism', but Iraq has never carried out a terrorist attack. Osama Bin Laden does not hide in Iraq. America has already invaded Iraq only 12 years ago. Francis does not understand why he must do so again.

"Why?"

America just looks at him then, expression completely blank. He does not seem to understand the question. "Terrorism," he answers flatly, as if it's the most logical thing in the world. "I'm at _war_, Francis."

"With Al Qaeda, _non_?"

Alfred still doesn't comprehend. "No," he says, shaking his head minutely. "I'm at war with _terror_."

Francis swallows and reaches out to place a palm on his forehead, then stare into his pupils. In France's own language, you can't even go to war with an abstract concept. It's as effective as going on a war against envy, or innocence. "Your head. You were hit on your head, weren't you-"

"Listen," America snaps, suddenly all teeth and claws and tensed muscles. "Are you with me or _not_?"

France shakes his head mutely, then watches without a word as Alfred stalks off. He needs to ring the others at the UN before it's too late.

**-**

**Symptoms- amnesia and difficulty in lateral thinking and/or problem solving **

It makes perfect sense. It does. What's wrong with them?

(What's wrong with _you_?)

Look at your charts and images and see your missiles and Iraq. It's there, you say. Why can't they see it? It's right _there_. Everything they're doing points to the fact that they have weapons and they're going to attack somebody. Yet somehow, you're the only one who thinks it.

You're slowly aware that something's not right when the rest of the UN assembly listens to you but just sits there, mouths still locked in frowns. You…you _have_ to invade Iraq. It's _Iraq_. You…you don't remember why, exactly (your head still hurts when you think), but you have to invade, and the reason has to be terrorism. That's why…that's why they have biological weapons. That's why you're at war with them. Isn't it?

The UN weapons inspectors find nothing. America still invades anyway, not listening to France and China and Ivan and the rest of the world. He runs in and does it, despite the feeling of worry gnawing at his heels.

Now, even his people are confused as to why they're invading, but Alfred tells himself again and again that it's for _good_. He'll save his people and the Iraqis and… and really, the whys and wherefores don't make it of his mouth. America runs into the Gulf for the second time, not thinking about the first time, and even if some of his chiefs may be thirsty for black gold, he's doing it because it _makes sense_ and because it's _right_.

**-**

**6. Teacup (i.e. the Storm contained therein)**

News travels fast over the internet. If internet proficiency and speed were the only things that determined a country's intelligence agency, then South Korea would be best informed man in the world. As it is, he's not all that far behind.

He knows all about the rumours. America this, Alfred that- a few keys short of a keyboard, or a few clerics short of a party. His Aniki grumbles things to him about broken UN sanctions, and when he's over with Canada he sees just how worried Matthew is first-hand.

That's why, when he sees the article about the storm that hits New Orleans, Yung Soo digs into his treasury and finds that money he'd saved for a rainy day. Looking up at the sky over America, he sobers. If this wasn't a rainy day, what was?

Afterwards, he watches it unfold morbidly, like a tragic drama. The cities are flooded and people left to die, or to starve. His money is spent of course- everybody tries to help Alfred, aware of how fragile the situation is, even Russia- but somehow nothing seems to work this time around. Pictures of people stranded on roofs for weeks, stories of racism rear their ugly heads. More people die afterwards from hunger and thirst, even though Brownie is doing a heck of a job.

Kiku sits in Yung Soo's living room and sips at his tea. China drinks across from him. Normally Japan tends to distance himself, but recently things have started to trouble them as a collective. Korea's brother to the North is making noise once more, and though they usually would have liked to have a Hero sit with them, the Hero seems to be busy with his own problems.

"So, Aniki," he begins brightly, though the clouds outside are anything but. "Things are looking up for you, huh?"

China makes a non-committal sound in his throat and blows on the surface of his green tea. The Dragon opens an eye within him and watches America flounder with himself, and waits for his time to come again.

-

**Symptoms- inability to deal with stress, slowed information processing and depression**

This time, it's finally too much. Nothing is going right. Nothing is going right. Nothing is going _right_ and your children are being flooded and you don't know what to do any more because your head _fucking hurts_ and you can't _think_.

You're just too tired to do anything, and even though you try to do what you can it's useless. When they tell you 'there's a storm, what do we do?' it takes you longer to understand than it would have years ago, and that's enough time for a thousand people to drown as the floodgates finally break. Darkness and failure and misnomers rush forward with the water and bury you and it's like you're falling into a deep, dark, empty hole where there's nothing and you keep falling. You're America, but you're a failure and you're useless.

You just want to hit the bottom, because you're tired of trying to fight past the fog in your mind anymore.

Katrina hits Alfred hard and fast, and though he tries to scrabble upwards, the currents of water and international sentiment drag him away. He can't do anything in time because he's distracted and not feeling normal and sane anymore. He feels his people cry out to him, he hears them curse his name, he hears people around the world click their tongues in pity, and he thinks that being the Hero isn't as great as it's really meant to be.

They all extend their hands out to him, Kiku and Franics and Yao and Ivan and Arthur and Ludwig and the Italys. Alfred grabs their arms and holds on tight against the flow of water around him and shuts his eyes and desperately tries to weather the storm.

-

**7. Change **

"Is it better?" Canada asks quietly, once everything has stopped spiraling too fast away from him. Alfred taps a finger against his temple and smiles his best Hollywood grin.

"Never been better, Matthew." He looks fondly at his new President as he finishes his speech. "Doesn't hurt anymore. No blood. Completely normal."

Matthew allows this little lie to pass. He's seen Alfred sit in the UN with his head in his hands, trembling and sweating. It's less frequently now, but it still happens. It happens around the times when Australia and England and his friends tell him that they want to leave Iraq. It happens when they find dead bodies in Afghanistan and when people compare Alfred's old boss to his new and scoff.

Iraq can stand on his own two feet now, finally. America will try and pull out over the next few years. The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina was bad, but now there is at least a semblance of order and lives are returning to normal. His troops continue to keep the peace in Afghanistan, along with more than 26 000 men from his allies showing their support. After so many years of confusion, Alfred's people have told him that _yes, they can_, and he was with them as the world celebrated.

"-and you'll stay and help, won't you? That's what we still need, Matthew." America turns to him brightly, with the smallest hint of dullness in his eyes. Really, it could be from the glasses. "I know it's hard with this financial business, but we really still need your help. Everyone's."

All around the globe, glasses are raised in toast to America's recovery.

"Yes," Canada says, the finger suddenly pressing hard against his brother's temple the only thing in his vision. "Yes. Of course."

Despite all this, September the 11th 2001 is not a headache that will disappear so easily.

-

-

-

Response to Kink meme prompt: 9/11 as a head injury.

With palliative care, the world is expected to make a full recovery.

Did you know?

When the 9/11 attacks occurred, all international flights to America were denied landing. Canada was the main recipient of displaced travelers and had to deal with tens of thousands of people in Operation Yellow Ribbon.

At the time of the bombings, President Bush was visiting an elementary school and reading a story book.

Within a week the identity of the bombers had been found, and in response hate crimes against people of Middle Eastern appearance rose. Mosques and a Hindu temple were burnt, and one man was shot dead- he was not a Muslim.

The only country in the middle east not to condemn the attacks was Iraq.

In the months after 9/11 there was a great restructuring of civil liberties and security laws, notably the passing of the PATRIOT and Homeland Security acts. These allowed tapping of phone lines and unlawful detention of terrorism suspects. Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, became the sight for one such detention camp.

Russia and other countries also introduced laws and froze all funds to al Qaeda.

Japan and Germany, both countries who cannot constitutionally have an army, played large roles in the reconstruction of Afghanistan, despite their inability to fight and outrage from home.

The Bali bombings occurred in 2002. America had always indicated Iraq as a possible country for harboring terrorists, but when asked to give proof of this connection could not deliver.

France, China and Russia pressured America not to invade Iraq. UN weapons inspectors did not find any traces of WMDs. They invaded in 2003- Bush declared victory on May 1, 2003.

South Korea donated the 4th highest amount of money to America during Hurricane Katrina in 2005- 30 million dollars.

Barrack Obama, in March 2009, requested an end to term "War on Terrorism".

All symptoms listed are symptoms of post concussion syndrome.


End file.
